Red As Blood And Cold As Sand
by Ramzes
Summary: The conquest of Dorne was glorious and short-lived. It was also terrible for those who were too young to understand it but old enough to bear the brunt of it - or the peace that followed. A Dornish retelling of The Conquest of Dorne through the young voices of Dorne. Chapter 8): Endings
1. Mariah Martell

**Red As Blood And Cold As Sand**

 _Mariah Martell_

The little girl startled awake when she felt herself being lifted off. She often fell asleep on the carpet in her mother's solar and she loved it when her father carried her to bed, instead of a septa waking her up to take her to her chamber, so she opened her eyes for a moment to smile at him before drifting off again. But his voice startled her once again. "Mariah! Wake up!"

He never did that. Whenever she stirred, her father just smiled at her and said, "Go to sleep." Startled once again, she opened her eyes. Her father was carrying her down a long corridor, barely lit by a few torches. He was striding as fast as he did whenever he was headed for the Tower of the Sun, his face was veiled in shadows and Mariah felt suddenly, desperately scared. Behind him, other people walked. Women – she could tell by the sound of their footsteps. They wore slippers. She craned her neck to look behind.

"Stop squirming!" her father snapped and she froze. He held her so tight to stop her from moving that a clasp on his clothing dig into her belly painfully but Mariah was too scared to say a thing. She bit her lip to stop herself from crying – so deep that she felt the teeth actually puncturing the skin. She was too scared to say something about this as well. She buried her face in the chest of this angry stranger. If she couldn't see him, perhaps her father would come back.

They were now walking through something that returned the echo of their footsteps from all sides. Somewhere ahead, Mariah smelled a whiff of salt and wet earth while the faint unpleasant stench of a place with old air wrapped itself around her. She started choking but again didn't make a sound. And didn't look up.

Finally, fresh air and salt made their way into the throat that she had forced constricted. Her father put her down and she immediately swayed. He steadied her and she froze again, waiting for his anger.

He stroked her cheek and she almost wept with relief.

"Open your eyes," her father said. She did and blinked. They were on the coast now, near a looming dark shade. A ship. "I need you to listen to me."

Mariah swallowed and nodded. That was the Prince's voice. The one he used when he talked to his heir. He used it to tell her things that she didn't always understand, big and grown things. But she knew they were important.

"Dorne is in danger," her father said. "Our enemy, the King of the Seven Kingdoms, has decided to take it from us. He's ruining our lands and his armies are coming to us from three sides. If we can't stop him, he'll come here and ruin Sunspear."

The girl's eyes went wide. "Ruin Sunspear? That's terrible!"

Her father's face was set in a harsh mask. "It is. He wants to kill us or make us his bannermen, the way Lord Manwoody and Lady Jordeyne are mine. He'll never let you sit in my seat one day. He wants to take our sand steed and steal the fruit from our trees, leaving the land to burn and man and women to die."

This was getting more and more fearsome. Mariah stared at her father who sighed and shook his head. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes, Father," she replied hesitantly.

"If you don't understand now, you soon will," he said and cupped her face between his palms. "It's very important that you aren't here if he comes. You'll go to your mother's family at Lys. When it's safe, I'll send for you to be brought back."

Mariah gasped, the monstrosity of it reaching her mind immediately. "Oh Father, should I?" she asked plaintively. "I don't want to go anywhere, Father!"

"I don't want you to either! But you must be taken away. Do you know why? Because you are Dorne's future. And you know I am right. The Prince's orders should be followed," he added sternly and drew a hand across her cheek.

Mariah nodded bravely and didn't cry when he leaned over to embrace her. She didn't cry even when her mother and aunt did. When her septa tried to take her hand, she shook it away angrily. She was big now. She was Dorne's future. Her father said so. She wasn't a _little_ girl.

"What's his name?" she asked. She had to know who this evil man was so she could wish ill upon him with all she had.

Her father's face was stone as he stared at the ship that would take her away. "Daeron," he said. "Daeron Targaryen."


	2. Elsbet Toland

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Red As Blood And Cold As Sand

 _Elsbet Toland_

She dreamed of it for many weeks without respite. She imagined the sea battle, the fire engulfing three of the ships and the shrieks of those whose burning flesh sank to their death in the sea's cold embrace. The smoke that turned the sky into a black mass and the sea into something invisible that anyway rocked them fiercely as if the Seven were amusing themselves by tossing the humans this and that way like balls in some bizarre game. Then, she saw Ghost Hill as she had heard it was now, as she could envision it with the eye of her imagination. The houses there were built over the length of the hills, as if a giant had headed upwards, leaving buildings on his way… Now those gifts looked like a place sacred to the Stranger, windows broken, doors swinging wildly this way and that, for there was nothing to keep them in place… There was nothing left of the great mill, they said. The dead Ghost Hill!... And then, her brother would rise from the ashes and smile at her as he did when he found the time for the obtrusive little girl, and she's wake up screaming because he had no face, no face…

The majority of the men at-arms from here and the nearby seats and towns had left to meet the Targaryen king on dry land. There was also a fleet trying to stop Lord Alyn Velaryon, the Oakenfist, but each time Elsbet saw the preparations for the defense of Sunspear should the worst happen, she felt as if they were already doomed. And she wasn't the only one. There were others, too, she could feel it in their eyes, hear it in their silence. Many others – and they weren't girls of twelve like she was.

Now, her mother wore black in mourning and tears caught her unprepared – when talking to the children or nursing the babe. She was responsible for organizing the provisions that they would need, should they become besieged. Elsbet had heard that wherever their men retreated, they burned the fields behind them.

"But why?" she cried the first time she did. Burning their crops was what the boy king and his men did, wasn't it?

The castellan glanced at her but didn't break his conversation. His giving orders, in fact.

"So that they'd starve," her stepbrother Michael Manwoody informed her. Sometimes, there were things that he knew better than her, although he was a year younger. "If we're in luck, they'll die of starvation and diseases on their way."

 _We won't be in luck_ , Elsbet thought. The gods had withdrawn their favour from Dorne. What had happened to her own family was quite indicative: her eldest brother, their mother's heir had died defending Ghost Hill against Lord Velaryon. Her other brother had escaped under disguise from the wreckage and they didn't know if he was still alive; Michael's father, until now just Ser Roger, had suddenly found himself the new Lord Manwoody after his brother and nephews had all died in the same battle near the Prince's Pass. And they weren't the only family to suffer this many losses. Meanwhile, Daeron Targaryen's host advanced on both land and sea – something that was a cause of particular fury for her mother.

"You want to know why the Oakenfist won so easily at Ghost Hill?" Elsbet had heard her snap angrily and tearfully in front of Princess Siella. "He knew what our ships and defenses were like. I showed him years ago. I showed him while he was… a guest of mine. By the Mother, what a fool I was!"

Elsbet looked away quickly before any of the women realized that she had been listening. She had heard the rumours before. Some believed that her father wasn't her mother's husband at the time, a man who had been ailing for a long time, but the young and handsome Lord Velaryon who was well received at Dornish court each time he chose to visit. But she refused to give it a thought. Now more than ever.

* * *

Sunspear fell.

After a year of a siege when she had been watching the horrors unfolding in the shadow city, Elsbet thought she was prepared for what would happen now. It turned out that she was wrong. So very, very wrong.

She saw it not from the relative safety that the Old Palace offered the highborn hostages but the streets. They were with her mother to check on the warehouse at the Lowtide Quay and make sure it was safe from the unrelenting attack from the sea when the shouts from the walls on the other end of Sunspear shook the earth and reached the very sky. Somehow, Elsbet knew as soon as she heard before she even made out what the men were shouting.

"Put it to fire," her mother ordered sharply and the men gaped at her.

"My lady, there is no use! They're already inside and we'll need food as much as they do!"

Lady Ileria Toland laughed harshly. "There wouldn't be nearly enough food in Sunspear and around even for them! They won't let us have a single grain of wheat! At least I'll have them starve as well!"

In the next few days, after having learned what food rationing was, Elsbet would learn what real starvation was. But that would be only after she learned what the right of three days was… The right of three days of looting given to everyone once the King and his commanders had their share. The right of a few men entering a house and leaving a ruin… The right of them taking women right on the street, their weeping only making the men more excited. The right of walking down the streets looking for someone to stab just because they didn't like the look of that person… How long three days were!

In the first day, they tried to reach the Old Palace. It took them more than four hours. Her mother didn't let go off her hand for a moment as they pushed through the crowds and weaved around particularly large groups of men drunken by their victory… and the wine they had already started taking out of the houses. Here and there, smallfolk tried to protest. Elsbet screamed at the sight of the first head smashed by a heavy mace. Then, she somehow became used to it.

From time to time, when they were thrown against each other, besides the reek of blood, sweat, urine and shit everywhere from the street she could smell the milk flowing from her mother's breast. Despite the privations, Lady Ileria had made more than enough to feed her babe and now he was away and her body demanded its release.

Finally, they made it through the huge gate of the Old Palace and Elsbet sighed, relieved. Here, they would be safe. No one would do to highborn what they did to the poor smallfolk. She headed for a smaller yard…

Michael's hand gripped her shoulder. "Don't move," he said, his throat constricted with horror.

As in a continuation of the nightmare tormenting her night after night, Elsbet followed his eye to one of the terraces on the third floor. Princess Larra was screaming and trying to run away from three… five… six men... One of them grasped her long silvery hair and yanked her close. Another reached for her gown.

Amidst cheering and encouragement from the men in the bailey, the sister of the Prince of Dorne fell on the marble floor and the first man knelt between her thighs that another one held forcibly apart. Elsbet thought she heard her shriek but it might be just the sound she imagined would have come out from the young Princess' lips.

"Filthy monsters," Michael groaned.

"Let's go out," her mother said sternly. "We cannot stay here. It isn't safe."

Elsbet looked at her, shocked. "But the children…"

Her mother's face reflected agony but her voice was stern. "You will be in greater danger than they if I let you inside. You see that even the Princess isn't safe. I won't let them have you. We're leaving!"

Only by the grace of the Seven did they manage to leave. Not the city. The palace.

* * *

It was a shelter that they finally found themselves in. After the fires from the first three days, Daeron Targaryen had ordered that the makeshift shelters should not be disturbed. His new subject needed a place to live, after all. But his generosity didn't go as far as to provide food, so at night Michael and a few other boys stole out to steal fodder from old abandoned stables and food from the garbage that soon started piling on the streets. But only in a few days, there was no food in the garbage. Only from the kitchens in the Old Palace where cooks and kitchen servants were ready to give people some remains – usually against a price that went a few times over what food would have cost.

"Perhaps we should go back in the palace," Elsbet said desperately but she knew that the highborn in the Old Palace were only slightly better off than they. The food went for the young King and his people.

And then, one day Suspear woke up to the news that Princess Larra was dead. Dead and dropped into a secret grave under the cloak of night. Daeron Targaryen and his men had been unwilling to see how the people would react to the news that she had taken her own life away, jumping from the Tower of the Sun. Those who had seen her death and hasty burial had been heavily coerced. For three days, no one had been allowed to leave the Old Palace. But the news spread anyway and the roar for justice and revenge was deafening, even coming from people who lived in starvation and fear. The attacks against Daeron's men at-arms became more frequent. They soon started only moving in pairs because in the street, people would show and start tugging them down from their horses. In a few cases, they were cut down in pieces… with kitchen knives. In response, the punitive expeditions became more frequent.

Elsbet didn't know how Septa Angarel had escaped. How she had found them at all. She only knew that one day, she woke up to her mother weeping in relief and holding the babe, the older boy pressing against her side.

Then, with time, she came to realize that Lady Ileria had managed to become a part of a group that had established contacts with the inside of the palace and receive news and instructions. Of course, it didn't take long to the King's man to realize this as well. Questionings and tortures were quick to follow but no one could arrest all the grooms and serving wenches in the Old Palace, so attacks kept taking place against Daeron's commanders, against his ordinary men at-arms… Revolts broke out here and there. A well that was now commandeered for the newcomers' needs alone was poisoned and more than a hundred men died… And the reactions were never late, locking them together in a long extension of hopelessness and futility that seemed to span endless in from Elsbet's now very old eyes.

About a month after the fall of Sunspear, they started looking for Ileria Toland by name, wary of her possible attempt to rally either the remains of Ghost Hill or the resources of King's Grave which was now faring better and which lord's wife she now was. And they were right – if there was a way, that was what Elsbet's mother would have done. But everyone who tried to leave Sunspear by land or sea was checked all too thoroughly. So they stayed where they were as Elsbet's dream of horror were slowly being pushed away by the enticing images of food: roasted beef, black olives, loafs of bread, yellow and crusty… Blood oranges… Food, food, food.

One morning, Lady Ileria had both Elsbet and Michael sit with her and carefully, yet without mincing words told them the last news from the Old Palace. The King's men were still looking for them and Marcal Jordayne who was hiding in another part of the city. And they had now moved to questioning highborn. Michael's father was now recovering after such a questioning but young Vorian Dayne, Elsbet's betrothed, had not come out so lucky. He had been buried in the same manner as Princess Larra but the word had spread nonetheless.

"You'll marry his brother, of course," Lady Ileria concluced in a steady voice. "When it's over… If he recovers…"

Davos Dayne had also been questioned. Like his brother and Elsbet's stepfather, he had not betrayed them.

Elsbet nodded and found out that she couldn't even cry.

"Do not worry, little lady," an old woman wheezed next to her. Riksana. Elsbet now felt as if she had always shared a room with seventeen more people and she had learned to ignore their voices. If she had to listen to everything said around her, she'd surely go mad. But Riksana was talking to her. Numb, Elsbet turned to her.

"What?"

"Your fate is written on your forehead," the old woman said. "You'll be an ancestress of kings."

Elsbet gave her a vacant look. Around her, people started murmuring. She knew that some considered the old bald woman a witch who saw the future but right now, the idea sounded so ludicrous that she could only laugh hollowly, not at all comforted by this shining future. The rough sound hurt her throat and she spat, suddenly sure that she'd see blood in the spit.

Somewhere around the end of the second month, food started arriving. As glad as Elsbet was at the meager portion that arrived once a day, she couldn't help but feel that this was a sign, however small, that the invaders were stabilizing their grip over the capital. Michael thought the same because he pushed his handful of walnuts at little Mors.

"No," Ileria said harshly. "You _will_ eat it."

She took half of Mors' walnuts to herself and he gave a cry of protest but she snapped at him so angrily that he fell silent at once, numb with horror; tears streaming down her face, Ileria ate the walnuts and then her own portion. A few more nuts would not make Mors much more full but they could make the difference between life and death for both him and the babe. This way, their mother would make more milk. Elsbet had always thought that four was too old to suckle. But that had been before she experienced the horror of starvation.

The man arrived the next week. Entered the shelter like the Warrior himself. Strong, well-fed, his armour shining… For a moment, Elsbet gave him a look of admiration before she saw her mother scowl. The difference between the two of them could not be greater. Her mother had aged and gotten smaller, dirty, her hair unwashed in months… Stinking… With a boy of four suckling at her breast as if she were a wetnurse making a living this way.

"Mors," Lady Ileria said. "Step back."

Her son did. As it happened so often, the sight of his small face, gaunt and ashen, cut through Elsbet. But now, she couldn't even distract him with a story or play because she was rocking the babe to sleep. Instead, Michael drew him close.

"So," the man said. "You are here indeed. I've been looking for you."

Ileria Toland raised an eyebrow and gave him a look of ice. "If I wanted to be found, I would have contacted you. You weren't exactly hiding."

He flushed. "You are here indeed," he said again. "Just as they said you would be."

"Who?" Elsbet's mother asked. "Who was this traitor?"

He sighed. "Still as defiant as ever, I see. It's over, Ileria. You lost. It wasn't a war I desired but we won and you lost. There is no use for you to suffer like this for mere pride's sake."

"Pride?" she demanded. "You mean that your boy king will just let me and my children go? Without trying to use us the way he does the other prisoners? Every day, I hear of someone else who was tortured or killed in order to impress upon their families that you aren't jesting with your threats."

"Were you against the attempt on His Grace's life?" he asked. "The one that led to Prince Aemon being wounded instead?"

She visibly slumped. "You mean that even _he_ didn't die? The Seven must have really abandoned us."

Elsbet knew that her mother had nothing to do with that but she wasn't going to explain it. Besides, Lady Ileria's regret was not false. She wished for Prince Aemon's death most fervently. It was no different with Elsbet and Michael either.

"They didn't," the man said. "It's over, Ileria. We can now start building. Come with me. You'll be better cared for in the Old Palace…"

"Like Princess Larra was?" she challenged and he flushed once again.

"It was… a mistake. The men were giddy with excitement and we couldn't…."

"Was Prince Aegon also giddy with excitement?" Ileria challenged and in his downcast eyes, Elsbet saw that it was true. Aegon Targaryen had indeed taken his dishonoured cousin to his bed against her will. She felt sick at the renewed imagining of what all of them must have done to the Princess.

"It's different," the man insisted. "It will be different for you. I'll take care that…"

Ileria now laughed, loud and ugly, and bitterly. "Do you think me a fool, Alyn Velaryon? If the boy says, you'll personally deliver my daughter to his bed and stuff a cloth into her mouth to stifle her screams. Well, I guess I was a fool," she ended, more quietly.

The renowned Oakenfist now moved his eyes to Elsbet. The girl looked at him, just once, and again stared at the babe in her arms. She knew that he was looking for resemblance but he wouldn't find anything either way. She was the very image of her mother, in everything.

Old Riksana laughed. "You should show more respect to the foremother of your future kings, m'lord," she said sagely, dark tip of a tongue gleaming between toothless gums.

Alyn Velaryon looked at Ileria again and again, he looked regretful. "I have to take all of you there," he said, sounding… apologetic? "It's my duty. You'll be better off there. Look at you! For how long do you think you can go on like this? You might be forced to accept King Daeron's authority but you'll live in peace and well, you'll… live. You have four sons and a daughter to take care of."

"Three sons," she said bitterly. "Just three."

His face immediately showed mortification and regret. "I would have spared him if I could," he said softly. "It was my duty, Ileria. Come with me now."

He reached for her hand.

"Mother," Elsbet pled. She could see his escort waiting for him in the yard. There was no way that they could win a fight. And there was no use to excite him to anger. She wanted to live… to live… and if there was a fight, all of them could lose their lives. Even the babe.

Ileria recoiled from the hand but rose, heavily. A few moments later, they were all headed for the Old Palace where they had been eagerly expected guests so very often.

Now, all they could look for was what Daeron Targaryen' will would choose for them.


	3. Cassella Vaith

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Red As Blood and Cold As Sand

 _Cassella Vaith_

During the travel to Sunspear, their ship took part in no less than three battles and afterwards, each time Cassella was interrogated by that rough man from the Reach, Lord Darklyn and the captain who was charged with delivering her safely to the Old Palace, as to why that was. "I don't know," she replied each time, trying to keep her voice steady. "Those aren't the Prince's man. They… they're acting on their own."

"On a ship belonging to the Dornish fleet?" Darklyn would ask darkly, disbelievingly, and Cassella would have no choice but try to convince him because as long as she was aboard his ship, she depended on his goodwill. He could just throw her into the sea and declare that she had jumped like Princess Larra had. Like so many poor women – smallfolk, and not only – had done in a desperate attempt to escape from the advancing men at-arms or get rid of the unwanted fruit growing in their wombs.

He didn't believe her. "They can't all be traitors to your lost cause who ran away and stole ships, my lady."

Of course they could – and they were. Dornishmen and women didn't take well to being conquered. But Cassella couldn't say it – well, she could but she was sure to inflict his anger upon herself and that was not something she was keen to do. The Young Dragon's men had frozen her into disbelieving fear since the day they had run down the Vaith and the town below. The merchants had run out of moon tea in mere days and now, there were so many graves of young women who had died trying to force the unwanted babes out of their wombs. So she stayed silent, forcing herself not to run to the outlaws each time such a vessel attacked the dragon king's ship, begging her to take her with them – she didn't know where but it would be a better place than King's Landing where she'd soon head for.

She saw the devastation before they were even close enough to make out the silhouette of the city. Dark tongues were rising against the brilliant blue sky, cruel in its serenity unmarred by a single puff of cloud. The sun shone, blindingly white and careless of the dead and mourning ones. It looked obnoxious to Cassella as she strained to see what was burning… what _were_ burning. There were fires in many places in Sunspear. Men at-arms' barracks. Or people's homes. Or both.

As they came closer, Cassella gasped. The familiar frame of the sept was… jagged. Like a broken comb. The quays were destroyed, so she waded in the water holding her skirts up. The coldness enveloped her legs until she felt that she couldn't make even a tiny step anymore. For a moment, she thought she'd stay here, near the devastated shore, forever, and she didn't know if fear or relief were prevailing. But of course, no one would just let her loom there. A hand wrapped around her arm, and she stumbled ahead once again.

On the beach, there was a group of armed men waiting for them. Cassella had trouble understanding their speech but she got the gist of it. There was yet another revolt into the city and they were here to make sure that the new hostage would reach the Old Palace without the rebels interfering.

The ride to the palace was a terrifying one, the men and women throwing stones and trying to drag the riders off their horses being no less terrifying than the men wielding axes, bitcher's knives, and makeshift arrows. Often, swords and arrows of true men at-arms shone through. Her companions responded in kind, cutting with their swords and kicking those who were closest by wherever they could. Cassella rode with one of the newcomers, surrounded by the rest of the party, and even that offered no protection. An arrow brushed her shoulder, leaving blood that started oozing; a few times, she got almost dragged down. At this moment, the crowd consisting of her compatriots was more dangerous to her than her captors. Here they were, pale shadows of human being, withered, gaunt and so weak that it was incomprehensible how they could even stand, let alone fight. Many a woman carried their dead children's bodies, pitiful and wasted away, holding them high and screaming hate and despair into the conqueror's faces and that made the crowd mad with vengeance. Cassella stared at them, realizing just what she must look like in their eyes – a healthy, well-attired highborn lady riding with their enemies. They screamed their hatred and threats to her as well, calling her names that she had only heard from the sailors on her father's ships when she had been near the port at Vaith.

The streets were so changed that soon, Cassella couldn't say where she was. She felt as if she truly didn't know – the city, not the streets. That couldn't be Sunspear. Not with all those starving people, dead babies, ruined houses where often the only thing that had survived was the stable and people and animals clearly lived there together. Piles of rubbish lined the streets, so tall that they rivaled the one-floored houses. And the sun shone upon all of that, serene, and smiling, and terrible.

Somewhere behind Cassella, a great cacophony arose. She tried to turn in her saddle but the man behind her steered her back. "Stay put, lady," he snapped. "We'll both fall down and should we do, we won't be leaving alive…"

Cassella stayed put, keeping her eyes tightly shut and trying to block out the screams from behind as a new, heavily armed party of men rode amidst the crowd, effectively dispersing it. She prayed that what she was hearing wasn't the sound of a head being split open and at the same time, she felt sick because she prayed for the unrest to be put down now because that was the only way for her to live right now. When the heavy gates of the Old Palace clung shut behind them, she breathed a sigh of relief but couldn't get her eyes to open, so at the end, she was taken down from the horse like a baggage and carried somewhere, placed in a chair. A brief conversation followed, and then retreating steps and the closing of a door.

"Cassella," a voice said. "Come on. It's me. Elsbet. Open your eyes."

Cassella slowly did and then closed them again, swooning.

* * *

"They will put it down again," Elsbet said the next day and no one in the Princess' solar protested. Cassella didn't dare ask questions. They all looked so sure, as if they had been through this more than once. Of course they had.

Cassella looked around, hoping to find an unoccupied chair. But she found out that even pillows were in demand. The right of the first three days… Most of the women sat on the floor. The planks. The Myrish carpets were gone, of course.

"And we'll go to King's Landing?" Cassella asked.

Elsbet nodded. "And we'll go to King's Landing," she confirmed. She looked strangely indifferent, as if she didn't care at all. How was that possible? She had gone through all the hardships of the siege – it showed so clearly in her emaciated frame and her much older facial lines.

Perhaps that was because Cassella hadn't felt it all? She had seen and experienced the war at Vaith but to her, personally, it hadn't been this intimate. Today, she had felt the greatest fear in her life. Fear of her own people. Perhaps once she had spent enough time in King's Landing and fear became a part of her, she would become indifferent as well? A chill went through her.

Elsbet drew a hand across her forehead. "I am so hot," she said. "Is there some water here?"

"No," one of the women replied. "We'll have to go and pour some."

"I will," Elsbet said and Cassella eagerly joined her, desperate to escape the desolate grief in the solar.

The guards at the door gave them only a brief look as they went out.

"Do you draw your own water?" Cassella asked.

"We do many thing ourselves now," Elsbet replied absent-mindedly, staring at a woman carrying a babe and stumbling down a path in the garden.

"What?" Cassella asked.

"I hope she doesn't kill it," Elsbet said. "Some of them do. Others roam the streets, offering those babes to everyone who would wish to take them in."

Cassella was shocked into silence. Somehow, she had never thought that women would go this far in their hatred for those children forced on them. _If I ever become a mother, I'll never do such a thing,_ she swore but becoming a mother looked so removed from a young hostage who would soon leave for a land she didn't know.

In the small yard near the stables enclosure, two men were playing a board game. They immediately rose and watched in sharp attention as Elsbet drew waters from the well. No one moved to help her as she strained under the chain but when Cassella came close, her younger friend shook her head. "I only know how to do it alone," she said and then the men made her drink from the bucket. Were they making sure that the water was good for drinking? Elsbet drank without hesitation.

The clatter of hooves alerted them to the arrival of a new party. Elsbet swiftly drew back as a mounted party, red and sweaty, rode in full gallop. Now in the safety of the palace, many of them had took off their helmets and Cassella's eyes immediately went to the youth in the lead. He was as fair-haired as her… and about the same age. Now, looking at him, she thought it was beyond belief that he was this young, this king who had defeated them. His eyes were truly purple and she swallowed. No one should have eyes this colour. It wasn't natural!

The Young Dragon dismounted and went to the bucket. He drank and then stepped aside to leave another man, older, to do the same. The second man looked at Elsbet. "You must be very disappointed, my lady," he said. "I bet you prayed that we wouldn't return at all."

"No, Your Grace," Elsbet said, her voice cracking audibly. So she wasn't unafraid at all. Cassella had been wrong about her. But the man got her feeling immediately.

"What a liar," he murmured and drew a finger across her cheek. She made a step back. "I thought you were braver than this. You did survive for months in those hovels."

Elsbet stayed silent but drew further back, her eyes shining like a cornered animal's.

"Are you being serious, Aegon?" the King asked. "She's so young. Look at her!"

His cousin shrugged. "She's the very embodiment of femininity compared to Naerys when we wed – or even now," he said. "She does have breasts."

He turned to Elsbet again. "Go to my chambers," he said casually, sure that she'd obey, and Cassella once again felt the crushing weight of the realization that what the Prince of Dorne wouldn't have been able to do just a year ago, this Targaryen could do without thinking twice. "You'll get some lovelier accommodations there. Oh, and you'll have the chance to bathe with hot water every day. That'll be an improvement over your current conditions."

None of the other men looked interested. Elsbet suddenly became smaller, fear climbing up and wrapping itself around her like a poisonous ivy, taking away all the colour off her cheeks. Cassella stood frozen, thinking that the younger girl would crumble any moment now. Instead, Elsbet held her chin up and smiled, although her lips were trembling. "Very well," she said. "While I was living in the street, there was this old woman, this seer. She told me that I'd become an ancestress of kings. You think you're celebrating your victory, dragon prince, but there are no kings in Dorne. It will be my destiny that you'll be helping. My blood flowing forever on the Iron Throne," she finished, stealing a look at the current King, and Cassella admired her ingenuity.

Prince Aegon swore. His hand shot through the air and slapped her cheek so hard that she bit her tongue or the inside of her cheek and blood started trickling through her mouth. He looked at his cousin who was watching him with narrowed eyes and swore again. "Daeron, do you really believe her ramblings?"

"She's mine," was all the Young Dragon said in reply and Cassella saw the moment the hope in Elsbet's eyes died. Her friend turned around and ran but the young King drew level with her in no more than two steps. He threw her on the pavement and nodded at two of his men to help him with his armour.

When a city had been conquered, women were just part of the loot. But Cassella hadn't actually seen the deed. Not until now. Elsbet screamed and kicked, and fought, and then all bravery and defence went out of her and she turned into a sobbing mess with empty eyes who could only lie, paralyzed, as the boy did the deed that – Cassella was sure, she could see his face – brought him none of the expected pleasure. Cassella wondered if he had taken part in such a thing ever before. She thought not. He looked horrified but once he had claimed a girl for his, he had no choice but follow through, else his own men at-arms would wonder about his masculinity. So he kept pushing inside her, Elsbet kept weeping, and the tears and blood on her face came together into a fluid that was neither and both.

The bright sun of Dorne was still smiling indifferently at both him and her, and the watchers – the many enthused ones and the one who wept almost as profusely as Elsbet.


	4. Michael Manwoody

**Once again, thank you, VVSINGOFTHECROSS, for being such a constant reviewer. Thank you, lagoon childe, for your lovely review as well.**

Red As Blood and Cold As Sand

 _Michael Manwoody_

The Red Keep glistened in the brilliant, white-hot sunlight like a huge ruby blotted here and there by black. Michael squinted but couldn't make the dark forms out. He could only see that they were everywhere – around the castle, around the taller buildings, moving among the thousands of people dotting the harbour and filling the streets.

Moving?

"It's the banner," Elsbet said softly next to him. "The dragon banner."

He looked at her and tried to rein his fear in. _Nothing is more contagious than fear_ , his father had always said. Repeated it right now, before they left. He didn't need to feed his stepsister's fear or letting hers feed his own.

But Elsbet seemed to be devoid of fear. Devoid of everything. She stared right ahead with eyes that were dark and dead, her frame lost in the dresses that had been hastily mended before their leaving to fit her better in her emaciation. She was dead, though she lived.

Michael felt someone's eyes on them and turned. From the stern, the Master of Ships stared at them. At Elsbet. Who didn't even bother to look if she felt his eyes at all. During their journey, the man had done his best to assure that she was well served and fed, sending her the delicacies that only graced his own table. Elsbet had accepted them with indifference, just like she had accepted the second maid assigned to her when she only wanted Riksana. Or did she? She had asked her mother to have the old woman accompany her, so she must. _Take care of her, Michael,_ his father had said but how could he take care of a girl who didn't care about anything?

Now, there was a stirring aboard. Velaryon's subordinates started striding down the deck, staring out at the shore impatiently. Servants and sailors bustled about, leading terrified horses and making the final preparations for the grand entrance with the main attraction – the Dornish hostages. They stood close to each other, trying to look brave and indifferent but it was so hard. Only Elsbet managed it but it wasn't much of an achievement for a dead girl.

He helped her step down into the boat like he had hundreds of times at Ghost Hill. And when they were close enough to the shore to hear the thunderous elation of the crowd, the gravity of their plight finally struck him with its full weight: they had lost. They were no more than war prizes, like the deer his father's party hunted in the Red Mountains and all those men and women gathered before them wanted to watch them, rip them apart, take a piece out of them, their suffering being those people's blood, their humiliation a drink of exhilaration…

Elsbet's nails dug into his hand so deeply that Michael felt the trickle of warm blood. The closer the boat came to the shore, the louder the roar became and the farther Elsbet was dragged from of her stunned unfeeling state.

Now, they were close enough for Michael to see separate faces, all cheering, all lit by savage joy. He had seen it before – at Sunspear, addressed at Daeron Targaryen's men at-arms targeted by the wild crowd… He was relieved when a party of armed men stepped around them as soon as they stepped out of the boat, keeping them safe.

The formation around them had closed ranks so tightly that he couldn't see the crowd left and right. Those who waited ahead on both sides of the way, though, he could see. And hear. And feel their joy, their savage delight as if they would all share in the loot and the laurels were edible, as his stepmother would have said…

Slowly, the red castle rose high against them and Michael even felt relieved when the gates closed behind them. For now, they were safe.

Except for the court. Every lord and lady in King's Landing had come here to see the triumph!

"Are they going to make us dismount and walk behind Oakenfist's horse in some sort of ridiculous procession of triumph?" Elsbet whispered in Michael's ear. "Or put chains to our hands like Nymeria did to the six kings she sent to the Wall?"

Involuntarily, Michael looked around. Elsbet's imagination had returned as well, it seemed. Only, it wasn't bright and amusing like her mother's. "Nonsense," he said firmly. "We aren't defeated foes…"

Oh but they were. They were hostages _and_ defeated. He felt relieved when he realized that a bow in the throne room was all they needed to do. No chains. No wall.

"They don't look so brave now, do they?" a girl asked. The look she gave the King was full of admiration. "You did a good job with them, Daeron."

 _What do you know about bravery, Princess,_ Michael wondered bitterly _. It's easy to be brave when riding at the rings and fighting rivals who will never hurt you._ _What do you know about bravery?_ The memory of that last day of the siege flooded his mind. They had needed half a day to clear the bodies of the defenders carpeting the streets near the city gates. _They were brave_ , he wanted to scream but if he did, they might kill him as easily as not and he had _promised_.

"They do have some talents, though," the King replied. "Some time, you must accompany me to Dorne. I believe you'd love riding in their sands."

"I'd love that," she replied. She had the same silver-golden hair as him and she was just a year or two younger. "Are you ill?" she asked, looking at Elsbet. "Send them away before she throws up in the throne room," she added to the King.

Daeron nodded. "Your chambers are ready," he said. "You can choose first," he told Elsbet who murmured a gratitude.

As they left, Michael noticed Daena Targaryen's eyes move to his sister, fury and suspicion building up. He clasped Elsbet's hand more tightly, knowing that she might have made her first enemy here already. How could he protect her from the King's own sister in the King's own city?

Suddenly, he felt so tired, so very tired. He didn't take notice of the chamber he was finally taken to. He only asked about his harp but went to sleep before he heard the answer.

* * *

They'd been there for a week only when Riksana started boiling her herbs as she had in that shelter and later, in the Old Palace. Elsbet sat near the window, staring out into the nothingness, slumped in her chair. Michael was sliding his fingers absent-mindedly over the strings of his harp but more and more often, he found himself pause to stare at the kerchiefs and small pots that the toothless old woman had arranged on the table near the fireplace. In the pot over the fire, a potion bubbled, thick and dark-red, almost black. Outside, the night was still and bright and so incredibly beautiful that Michael could almost forget that they had lost, that they were captives, that they were bereaved… The harp sang of home, and lands new, and hope not lost yet… when a star fell and he gasped. Was that the star they had been scouring the sky for all those nights after Vorian Dayne's death? Or was it for Davos? He had been so very unwell when they had left. He had never truly recovered after being put to questioning to reveal their whereabouts.

"Why did you stop?" Elsbet asked. "Keep playing."

He hadn't even realized that she was paying attention.

Riksana went to Elsbet, not quite touching her. "I am ready, my lady," he said and Michael went cold.

His sister didn't answer at once but then she rose and crossed the chamber. "Go to bed, Michael," she said and hesitated. "Whatever you hear, do not come in."

"Is it dangerous?" he asked, forcing the words through a suddenly dry throat. "Are you doing something that might bring about your death?"

Two years ago, he'd never have thought of such a thing, let alone said it, but they had both seen death now many times, felt its cold touch, experienced its casual slap until it suddenly decided that it was tired of them and went elsewhere. Death was not something that they only talked in whispers about. Death was a companion. Almost a friend.

"Don't let anyone in," she only said and as Michael went out, he looked at the pot again, the potion black like curdled blood. What was that, a cure or poison brewed in the Stranger's owl cauldron? No, he was just scaring himself worse than needed. It was no poison – how would Riksana give Elsbet poison?

He could feel that his sister wanted to stop him, clasp his hand for courage but she didn't. "When it's over," she said instead, "will you play something for me?"

He only nodded because his throat was clogged with a sob that he would not let out.

Michael went out of Elsbet's chamber and crossed the small hall to his own. There, he sat in front of the window like she had and stared out into the night, the moon just a sliver in the starry sky. The night of the dark moon, he thought. He had heard about the powers of dark sorcery being at their strongest in such nights, about the curse of barren women and how in such nights, the Stranger rode out on his pale mare. Michael could almost see him there, among the stars, white and shining. _Don't take her_ , he plead and the Stanger looked down and smiled at him like an old friend. But he did not stop.

A shriek rang out, sending Michael to his feet and for the door. As he opened it, another scream came out, cut through the night, made its way through the very walls of the Red Keep. From the other chambers, the rest of the hostages had run out, aghast, terrified. Michael's sound reasoning suddenly returned. "What is it?" he asked. "Elsbet is ill, that's all. Go back, everyone!"

No one moved.

"But what's wrong with her?" Marisia Jordayne asked in a low, shaking voice.

"It's nothing!"

Cassella Vaith made a move as if she wanted to enter but hesitated even before the door to Elsbet's chamber opened. Now, even Michael drew back. In the torchlight that showed and hid the black gap of her toothless mouth, old Riksana truly looked like a witch.

"What, what?" she asked. "Go back to your chambers, all of you!"

"What's going on with her?" someone asked.

"Nothing, it's nothing! Go back to sleep!"

But she didn't have time to waste, clearly, so she just turned to go back and snapped over her shoulder, "No one should enter!"

As she closed the door shut, Michael thought he had smelled the scent of blood.

No one moved to enter. Cassella, her eyes wide, dark holes of fear, ran out first as if the Stranger was stalking her.

They stared at each other – a bunch of scared, helpless children. The youngest was barely seven, the oldest, Marisia – eighteen. Where had they found themselves, how had they come in this hellhole, with those terrifying people and now the Stranger threading among them…

"She's right," Marisia suddenly said. "We are of no use here. We're just scaring each other more. We should go to our own chambers and I believe she won't leave Elsbet without cures and care."

"Why," Allegra Uller said, "I believe she is meant to be mother of kings? That means that she will recover."

Despite everything, Michael laughed. Elsbet Toland! Queen of the Seven Kingdoms! And once started, he couldn't stop laughing and when he finally did and went to his room, he was surprised to see because he had thought it must be close to dawn already. It hadn't taken nearly this long and the stars still trembled in the sky like scattered embers.

Elsbet survived that night, and the night after that, and four days after that first scare she emerged, pale and gaunter than ever, to resume her seat in one of the two solars they had been given and demand the tune Michael had promised her.

"Are you truly fine?" he asked insistently, staring at her. That first night, he had seen Riksana carry three pots of liquid outside to bury them into the earth. Three! There was no blood in her face now.

"Yes," she said.

A few exchanged looks, a few plates pushed at her as if by feeding her, they could make her better by the moment… Michael looked at the faces around and was stunned at how shared misfortune had allied them. To the court, they might be a single unit, the Dornish but in their circle, they knew the truth: they were descendants of families who had fought, maimed, bribed, robbed, and plotted against each other. Who still distrusted each other. There wasn't a single one of them who was friendly to everyone else but now, in their shared living space and restrictions, and the sword hanging above their heads, they were all united in their fear and concern. In their effort to stay who they were and not yield. Stay alive, yet not broken. Elsbet's trial had been their first test. They had now become a unit.

"I bet you we brush through this," Michael said bravely, looking at his sister. "I bet you that this time next year, we'll be back home and it will all be only a distant memory. It will."

* * *

For now, what was only a distant memory was daily ride. There were many horses in the Red Keep, some of them brought for Dorne – but not for the hostages. Michael yelled in rage when he saw his own Dark Wing being led though the yard to an oaken door. The sand steed turned his head his way, as if he had smelled him, and whinnied.

Before Michael knew it, he had crossed the yard, and grabbed the bridle. "Where are you taking him?" he demanded. Black Wing neighed and pressed his hand against the boy's palm. Even after two years of separation, he knew him.

The groom looked at the offending boy as if he were staring at someone out of their mind. "Get out of my way," he only said.

"This is my horse," Michael said, not moving a step.

The man huffed. "You're one of the hostages, aren't you? He might have been yours but he's Lord Velaryon's now. Move away."

He took the reins and tugged at them but Dark Wing didn't move, although Michael had let go off the bridle. "I told you," the boy said simply. "He's mine."

His father had given Dark Wing to him as a nameday present. Michael had always been there for the breaking, participating often. Black Wing would never obey someone else's commands with Michael still there and not confirming them with a voice or pat.

A swish cut through the air; without thinking, Michael lunged to catch it before it reached the sand steed's flanks. Red pain shot through his palm, spread out in drops on his skin.

"He isn't yours anymore, little lord," the groom said calmly and Michael touched the glossy hide.

"Go," he murmured. "Go with them."

The hide was black and warm and as the man led Black Wing away, Michael could barely keep himself together long enough to reach his chamber where he screamed in rage and pain, tears falling down his cheeks. He hadn't wept like this since the day the siege ended.


	5. Elsbet Toland II

**Thank you, VVSINGOFTHECROSS, for being such a great reviewer! Thanks, lagoon childe, for your input!**

Red As Blood and Cold As Sand

 _Elsbeth Toland_

Every night before falling asleep, she told herself that the next day she'd go out of the building and every morning, she thought she'd do it tomorrow. It felt strange, the things her body demanded of her now. As long as she was lying down or sitting in her chair, she felt fine but the short distance between the solar and her bedchamber left her out of breath. A peculiar, unwelcome weariness slowed her steps, wrapped wool around her brain, made her sleep all day and all night, save for a few short hours between twilight and midnight that was marked by the change of their guard. After a while, she could say who of them was who just by listening to their footsteps – some energetic, some dragging with fatigue, and some just showing plain limping. At even intervals, someone entered to make sure that the hostages were still inside. _What a folly,_ Elsbet would think absent-mindedly. _Where can we go? Who will give us a horse? Who will shelter us for weeks and months until the search for us finally stops?_ She feared smallfolk more than she did Daeron Targaryen's warlords. They might use her and murder her if her mother set a foot out of line but common men and women – she felt that they would dismember her just at seeing her unprotected. The wild drunkenness of their passing through the crowd was still fresh in her mind but even the dreams had lost their edge. They were now more like a dark shadow lurking to swallow her nights in even black than the sharp terror piercing though her sleeping mind and making her wake up, drenched in sweat, a scream frozen in her throat. Now, she slept through them, letting them feast on her waning reserves.

"You should start going out, Elsbet," Michael would say, pleadingly, but she'd only shake her head and ask for another song on his harp.

"Eat this," Riksana told her every night. "You're wilting for the lack of sunlight, little lady. Go out. Get some fresh air." But she was no more successful than Michael.

It had been three months when Elsbet finally saw what their prison looked like from the outside. The building was a fine one. Regular shape, a slanted roof… Not far away, the Royal Sept brimmed with life and prayers, its huge doors thrown wide open.

"Do you want to go there?" Marisia Jordayne asked. "Offer a prayer?"

Elsbet shook her head. The gods had abandoned them years ago. She wouldn't even give them her anger. "It's such a sunny day," she said with some astonishment, her hand going to shield her eyes against the light that was painfully bright after so many days of semi-darkness.

Marisia only smiled.

They made the first round of the garden slowly, so Elsbet could get used to moving again. A man working in a bed of big blue flowers gave them a look of suspicion.

"So, you're allowed to move freely around the castle?" Elsbet asked.

"Where could we go?" Marisia asked simply.

Cassella emerged from the sept and Elsbet waved her close. To her surprise, her friend seemed almost reluctant to follow the beckoning, although she did follow it at the end. "I'm so pleased to see that you're better. You are, aren't you?"

"Where have you been?" Elsbet exclaimed. "I haven't seen you in weeks!"

"More like moons," Marisia muttered and Elsbet frowned. Was that so? Cassella hadn't spent time with her in quite a while indeed.

For a moment, Cassella's eyes went downward. Faint blush coloured her cheeks. "I don't leave in the keep anymore," she said. "But I'm holding you in my prayers, Elsbet. All of you."

"Is Prince Aegon a deity now?" Marisia asked with derision and Cassella almost jumped in the air.

"By the gods, Marisia! Be quiet!"

"Why?" the other girl asked but lowered her voice nonetheless. "Are you afraid that he's going to punish you for my offense?"

"No," Cassella said softly. "I'm afraid that he's going to punish you…"

Elsbet's mouth gaped as she stared at her friend, trying to make sense of something that was simply not possible.

Cassella leaned close and kissed her cheek, quickly, as if she was scared that should Elsbet guess her intent, she might withdraw. "Stay strong," she whispered. "Stay fine."

A moment later, she was already on her way down the path as Elsbet was fighting those stupid tears, as if someone had died.

"Traitor," Marisia spat in Cassella's wake.

"I woudn't be so quick to condemn if I were in your place."

Both girls startled and turned slowly, fearfully.

At first, Elsbet thought that it had to be another mockery, a way to fear them into submission. A ridicule. It had to be a mummer's mask.

But it wasn't. The smooth skin, white and perfect, and the raw crusted hide were parts of the same woman's face. A part of her forehead seemed to be missing, replaced by an uneven black crust. Even the eyebrow wasn't there, although the fire that had done that to her had stopped before claiming her eye. Elsbet wasn't quite sure if that was a mercy or curse. Purple eyes assessed her calmly and she realized that they had come across a close family of the King. Mindless fear grasped her but she did her best to not let it show.

"My nephew is a man who strongly objects to others deriding his toys," the woman went on. "You're Marisia Jordayne, right? And who is your friend if I may ask?"

Marisia announced Elsbet's name and when the woman drew back, Elsbet realized, with terrifying certainty, who she was. What she must be seeing in her, Elsbet. She looked down, wishing that her hair weren't braided so she could hide her face. Baela Velaryon, a princess of House Targaryen, was bound to detest the presence of a girl who reminded everyone about Baela's husband's youthful indiscretions. Anyway, she regained her self-possessions almost immediately. "I should have known," she said. "You are the only one I haven't seen. The rest of them have all left the vault from time to time."

"Why do you call it that?" Marisia asked at the same time Elsbet shivered at the word. "A vault?"

"Because it was for me," the Princess replied. "When the false king held the throne and I was a captive left to recuperate here. It looks so long ago now…" She sighed. "Be careful with what you say," she warned. "Now more than ever."

What she probably meant made Elsbet's heart soar. They assured the woman that they would be very careful but when they were left alone, they held each other in feverish hope, letting themselves believe that they'd return home soon. Very soon.

* * *

At the end, it was the servants who were their touch with the outer world. Most of the men and women they had brought over from Dorne had been sent away and replaced with people from the Red Keep but those they had been allowed to keep made full use of the channels household servants and serving maids had for obtaining information. Riksana told Elsbet about stolen supplies and brigands' attacks far away in their own land and while Elsbet hoped for a new Vulture King to rise – which Michael told her would solve no problems but just compound the already existing ones, - the news of the severe retaliations Lord Tyrell imposed against those who dared rise filled her with fear. Even if a tenth of that was true, Dorne might soon become a land of no people at all! And if the Houses took part… Elsbet didn't want to think of that possibility. Not yet. She sat in the solar, walked in the gardens, sought the company of the rest of the hostages and delighted in that of the Velaryon children close to her own age, although she still couldn't fathom why Lady Baela had encouraged that friendship at all. But it gave her hope that they might stand a greater chance to withstand the winds of change blowing from Dorne, a change she fervently wished for despite all the dangers it contained.

After a while, she could say how the things were going just by the faces of the highborn they met during their walks. The hatred against them intensified and she gloried in that. Soon, she could say Princess Daena was near just by the prickling in the back of her skull – when she turned, she could see purple eyes glaring at her from afar.

"The Seven forbids that he weds her," Marisia said from time to time. "If she gets more say in the matters of state, we'll all be hung with our heads down to show Dorne that what is transpiring there will not be tolerated."

"He'll never wed Daena," Velaena Velaryon claimed when she and Elsbet conversed in a low voice, heads together as they sew under the watch of Velaena's septa. "No matter what she thinks. She's too volatile for him. Too much… like him. She wants to be his Visenya but he fancies himself greater than Aegon the Conqueror. He'll never be swayed by a woman as much as Aegon was."

"Velaena!" Princess Baela would say sharply when she happened to overhear and the girl muttered that she was sorry but she kept doing it. Elsbet so envied her – sharing gossip in her own home, with her mother close by.

Where was Elsbet's mother now? Was she standing over the babe's cradle? Was she fanning the flames of defiance threatening to consume all of Dorne? And if she did, was she valuing their lives so very little? Elsbet paced and raged silently for hours as her strength returned. From time to time, she spotted Cassella from afar and wondered if she'd be the one to survive if the anger towards Dorne came all over their heads. Only if Aegon hadn't grown tired of her, Princess Naerys told her aunt and Elsbet wondered at her complacency in her husband's affairs. Elsbet's stepfather would have never tolerated his wife flaunting a lover this way, although until now, she had been _the_ lady and he, just her husband.

"She might be glad that his attention is otherwise occupied," Riksana said and Elsbet shuddered, deciding that she had no desire to understand those Targaryens. Even Lady Baela was too complicated for her, although she knew the Princess was way, way too good for this husband of hers.

"Play something for me," she often said and when Michael's harp carried her to another sea, softer and brighter, much smaller towns, and a land of sands, she could pretend that none of this was happening. For a while.

With the recovery of her health, a recurring dream started coming. People shouting and quarreling, the babes in the shelter crying as their mothers rocked them and tried to keep them warm, a mewl of another babe, thin and plaintive. This other babe who had just been born was hungry and naked, left near a door, rain drowned it, a big black dog came to eat it… She started awake, her heart trying to carve a hole in her chest. A night after a night, after a night…

"Play something for me," she begged, desperate for the comfort of the lie that the harp brought her. Sometimes, she even fell asleep to the sound of it, although she woke up immediately if he stopped.

It was in such a day that Elsbet first saw Elaena Targaryen. The child had stopped, transfixed, near the open door of the yard of their keep as Michael played and as much as Elsbet wanted to chase her away, she did not have the power to do so. _A little intruder_ , she thought resentfully but with time, as the child who was as pale as Astra Dayne but far less prettier kept walking by, hoping to catch an accord, she got used to her. After all, Elaena didn't do anything to truly disturb. She just listened.

* * *

Less than half a year in her prison, Elsbet already felt as if she had always lived here. As if she had never left the Red Keep. And that scared her. But not as much as the constant cough that Astra had developed. The cough that would not go away despite all of Riksana's teas and potions.

"She needs sunlight," the old wise woman would say. "Sunlight and less dampness."

But that was something that they could not give her, although they made her spend almost the entire day out in the open when the pale sun of King's Landing rose in the sky. Elsbet even went to the sept, trying to put her faith in the Seven's goodwill once again. Surely they didn't want a sweet child like Astra to suffer a long illness? She knelt before the altar of the Mother and tried to summon all her reserves of faith. But the lovely marble face told her nothing.

When she tried to rise, her knees gave up. She had spent a long time on the floor and now reeled back, suddenly seeing the ceiling as her feet lost the floor.

The King stopped her fall and when Elsbet recognized him, she jerked back reflexively and so sharply that she would have stumbled back again, had he let go of her. But he only did so when he was sure that she had regained her balance. Elsbet stayed where she was, fearing washing over her in huge, giant waves…

"Are you well, my lady?" he asked, not quite looking at her and shifting his weight uncomfortably.

She nodded, not saying anything because she was sure that should she open her mouth, she'd throw up.

"Do you need a maester?" he inquired. "You look unwell."

Elsbet started to shake her head but changed her mind mid-motion. Astra could use a maester for that cough and loss of weight and despite them having asked for one weeks ago, it might be a few more weeks until one came over. If he did at all.

"Is this a yes or no?"

"By the gods, Daeron!" Daena said, irritated, from his left. "Are you going to make a fool out of yourself over a Dornish girl?"

The dislike in her eyes was so intent that it should have sent Elsbet reeling backward. But those days, the only thing that could achieve that was an acute physical indisposition… or Daeron Targaryen's nearmess. She swallowed, fighting the nausea.

"Are you mute?" Daena demanded and Daeron turned and shot his sister an angry look.

"Leave her alone! She's ill. Don't you see that she's ill? Take her to her chambers," he ordered his Kingsguard and left, the sound of the fierce quarrel he and Daena had started fading in silence. Elsbet hated both of them, prayed to the Seven to see them fall and die right there. But of course, they did not answer.


	6. Cassella Vaith II

**Thanks for each and every review this not quite pleasant story got!**

Red As Blood and Cold As Sand

 _Cassella Vaith_

In the beginning, she thought he might actually like her. Oh, she wasn't as stupid as to think that he might be in love with her. But she couldn't mistake the fire in his eyes. He desired her. Cassella knew she was beautiful – but was she beautiful enough to have some certainty with a man as fickle as Aegon Targaryen? She didn't know but the news of Dorne's defiance were trickling in, the sentiments against the young hostages were rising and when he seized her by the hand and ordered her to follow him, she did, the sight of Elsbet writhing on the paving stones as the Targaryen king took her as alive as ever, the terrible sound of her shriek still echoing in Cassella's mind. She had to hope that her beauty would suffice.

Something did. Cassella could not define it and it scared her but it worked. The look of her gave him some savage delight – but not when she was herself. He hated it when she lay stretched out next to him. He wanted her light-headed and playful, although he knew it was a ruse. He didn't even try to hide it – he knew that she had to feign it and while Cassella couldn't understand what joy he could take in something that he knew was forced, pretend she did. She accompanied him everywhere, smiling and pretending to be enamoured, winning the contempt of Daena Targaryen and the sad contemplation of the Queen Mother. Aegon's father, the Hand of the King, paid her no notice at all and that more than anything showed her how brittle her new security was. She figured so little in Aegon's life that her presence did not even merit a scolding for him or more than a fleeting glance for her.

Septons and septas glared at her and murmured; court ladies drew back when she came near and while on the outside it looked like deference, Cassella could read in their faces their true feelings: they envied her and despised her, and feared that should their gowns brush against hers by chance, they might be affected with her loose morals. Mere months after arriving at Aegon's chambers, Cassella rarely left them – there was nothing for her outside. Just the derision of both court and her fellow hostages. The more the danger for them grew, the more embittered they became, as if they couldn't forgive her that she had found a way to gain hope that they couldn't.

Soon, she only came out when Aegon wanted her to accompany him and when she wanted to go the sept – to the day when a septon came behind her as she was about to kneel in front of the statue of the Mother. Her own mother had been in failing health when she had left and Cassella wanted to pray for her health, as she did every day. But the small, gaunt septon in billowing robes stood at her left and interrupted her reverie.

"Perhaps you'll feel more comfortable if you pray in the privacy of your chambers, my lady."

Startled, she turned to him slowly. Dark eyes met hers, glowing with the strength of his conviction. "Are you telling me that I am unwelcome?" she challenged, all the bitterness of the last years going out addressed to the one who, for all his disdain, was least to blame for her situation.

He didn't even try to deny it. "The house of gods only accepts those who are pure in heart."

 _Then why do they accept Aegon_ , she wanted to ask. _Or your king?_ Elsbet's scream flashed through her mind like a white-hot blade. The derision of this small man and his gods were such a little price to pay for avoiding this.

"I thought they accepted everyone," a soft voice said. "Blessed men and women as well as sinners. And if they don't, perhaps they are not the gods I thought they were and do not deserve my worship."

When Cassella turned in that direction, her breath came hissing out.

She had never talked to Aegon's sister and wife, had avoided coming close to her in public and was stunned to see the feeling behind those gentle violet eyes. Not hatred or jealousy. Sympathy. Was it possible that Naerys Targaryen was the only one who didn't dislike Cassella because of her affair with her husband? Much to Cassella's own surprise, she felt jaded. Was she truly this pitiful that even this emaciated creature who couldn't keep her own husband's interest felt sorry for her? At the same time, she couldn't avoid an unpleasant revelation of yet another kind: she and Aegon's wife were strikingly similar to each other. They were the same height, the same willowy built, almost the same hair colour. Was that a coincidence?

"Perhaps my sister should consider donating to the Faith less and instead treating her fellow creatures with more sympathy," the Dragonknight said mildly and Cassella laughed out loud at the septon's horrified expression.

Naerys Targaryen didn't laugh but the twinkle in her eye made the Dornish girl give the idea of her not being quite as saintly as supposed some consideration.

Aegon, though, wasn't laughing when he came to her that night. He looked enraged. "Did you like my wife?" he demanded, drawing a hand along her cheek – a caress that had never turned to slap, yet somehow he managed to convey the impression magnificently.

"No," Cassella denied, focusing on the woman's pity. She didn't want the pity of any of them, from little Elaena to the King. She didn't want Aegon's pity either! It was his protection that she desired and for now, she had it.

His eyes became softer. He traced the line of her lips with his finger and Cassella hated him, hated her stupid body for the way it relaxed. He gave her the lazy smile of a man who knew her reaction and basked in it. Her hatred grew and that amused him greatly. "That's good," he murmured against her ear. "You aren't allowed to like her."

It was her fear that he liked most, her subjugation. Her self-hatred for wanting him while she hated him. _He's manipulating me_ , Cassella thought but when he carried her to bed and she wrapped her legs around his waist, she no longer cared.

* * *

It was about their ninth month together when she felt that her power with him had reached its zenith. He was still prone to anger, still delighted in her fear of Daeron, the war, and him most of all but he cared about her. Enough to be her shield against the hatred poured over them from all sides in this Targaryen court as Dorne's defiance kept going stronger…

"You are better than them," Aegon claimed but she didn't feel like it. She felt like a traitor, using her body and the colour of her hair to gain something. After all those months, there might have been a habit between them, knowledge that had honed her instincts so she no longer needed to watch every word she said to keep his goodwill – but she had not become fonder of him. Infatuated with the things he did with her body – yes, that grew every day as he revealed her things about herself that she had had no way of knowing. But it led to self-derision that also grew. And yet that scream was far, far worse than any pangs of conscience in her stupid, cowardly heart.

"You are better than them," he said and perhaps he was right. Cassella could see that their hearts grew more embittered every day. They looked as tense as the strings of a harp, although they tried to hide it – when they left the Vault of the Stranger, as Marisia had bitterly dubbed it one of the nights when Elsbet had been dead in all but the beats of her hearts after she had done that… thing. Their lives cost less with every day revealing that their worth as hostages wasn't this big against the will of Dorne's smallfolk – and it showed in the hardened attitude toward them. Cassella expected in mute horror the day when they'd deprive little Astra Dayne from the care of maesters.

"She's so ill," she told Aegon repeatedly. "She's no good for anyone here. Talk to the King. Talk to the Hand. Let her go home to die."

Of course, she hoped that the little girl wouldn't die. Once taken to the drier, hotter climate of Sunspear, she'd surely recover.

But Aegon wouldn't hear her. Sometimes, he snapped at her and she startled and felt herself become smaller, and then she realized acutely what an illusion the security the wolf offered her against the other predators was!

* * *

"You can't do this!"

"Stop me, then. Why won't you try?"

"If Father was here, you wouldn't have dared. Why are you doing this? It won't serve any useful purpose. They're children, all of them."

The angry voices snatched Cassella out of a dream where everything was as it should have been, she wasn't a hostage but guest, and Aegon wasn't an enemy who subjected her to the greatest humiliation of all – the knowledge that she wanted him no matter was – but her prince. She was all awake all of a sudden when she realized that it was Naerys Targaryen that she was hearing. Aegon's wife never came to her husband's chambers and while he maintained an active relationship with her, it always happened in the privacy of Naerys' own bedchamber. The peculiarity of the visit was enough to snap Cassella to sharp attention.

"They're snakes, all of them, and you're right that they serve no useful purpose. Tyrell's death made it obvious. I intend to change that. If their fathers cannot control their own smallfolk, then I will control them. I will make them useful. And you, my princess, will sit next to me and plaster your most beautiful smile on that white face of yours and pretend that you're pleased."

"I won't."

By the time of the evening feast, Cassella already knew what had taken place. She felt no regret for Lord Tyrell's death – its manner even made her laugh secretly, that a man from the lands that despised Dorne's morals would find his end thanks to his well known love for whores – but she was terrified of what that meant for her, them. When Aegon came to change for the evening feast and ordered her to make herself as presentable as possible, she didn't dare refuse, although her heart fluttered with anxious anticipation of something terrible. There was that coldness in his eyes already that she feared no fear and pretending to be playful and in love would erase. Silently, she obeyed.

When the great double doors were opened before them, Naerys Targaryen was nowhere in sight. Aegon swore and led Cassella to the high table, to everyone's shock; when he seated her in his lady wife's place, people gasped but of course, with the King, the Hand, and the King's mother and brother all absent from the city or at least the table, Aegon could do whatever he liked. Daena Targaeryen snapped something at her cousin, rose and waved to have her chair moved as far away from the couple as possible. Aegon laughed, leaned to her and said something that didn't make her relent but made her curious.

Cassella forced out a smile and raised her goblet as her anticipation grew. And then, when the first change of course arrived, she choked on her wine. For those who served were Elsbet, Marisia and the rest of the female hostages who were old enough to have flowered. – all naked and only wrapped in see-through veils… They had lost all their worth in Aegon's eyes, so he intended to use them as his playthings…

One of the men at Aegon's left reached out to grab Marisia. She jerked back instinctively, the wine going all over herself, and Aegon shook his head. "No touching," he said. "Just watching."

 _Are you going to touch them yourself_ , Cassella wondered, all that she had consumed during the day going back to her throat, and she summoned all her will in her attempt not to retch. Elsbet's dry, empty eyes made her want to weep. The dark triangle between the younger girl's thighs stood out against the fair skin and Cassella could see the eyes trying to reach it and go inside, further and further in…

"What kind of ideas do you have, Aegon?"

Even Princess Daena sounded unsure. For a moment, she looked like she'd rise and leave the hall but Aegon went over to her and started talking. Cassella couldn't make his words out but she recognized that tone of voice that almost – almost – made her believe him. She wasn't surprised when the Princess leaned back and stayed, although her uncomfortable expression did not shift and she tried not to watch. Aegon returned to his place next to Cassella, a satisfied smirk on his face. He raised his goblet to her and she raised hers in reply. She even managed a smile, although she didn't dare open her lips to drink – the urge to vomit was not quite gone.

The feast went on and as the wine flowed, the laughs and intrusive hands became more frequent. Cassella wondered if the night would end in massive rape with Aegon's sanction. But when the great doors were thrown open and she saw the young King's stormy face, a deep breath shook her like a great sea wave crashing upon the shore.

Daeron crossed the hall in wide strides and climbed the steps to the dais two at a time. "Out!" he roared. "Out, all of you!"

The floor vibrated under the running of hundreds of feet when the guests rushed to the doors, dignity forgotten. Daeron unclasped his cloak and wrapped it around Elsbet's rigid body. Daena gasped and he spun around to face her. "You've had your fun," he said. "I hope you memorized it well because it will never be repeated. If you do something like that ever again, I'll make you serve her on your knees. It isn't beyond the Wall here…"

She gasped again but wisely kept silent. Daeron's interest in her had disappeared anyway. He turned to his cousin, his eyes dark and gleaming coldly. "You are so bold to lord it over the lives of my hostages," he said. "I won't tolerate it, Aegon. I might value my uncle's input as my Hand but I won't suffer your aspirations – and do not think that I don't know them…"

 _Yes_ , Cassella urged them both as she saw Aegon's stony face and the undisguised hatred that passed between the two men. _Yes. Please kill each other. Yes!_

But they didn't. Instead, Daeron only said, "I'll see you tomorrow morning, Cousin. In my chambers. For now, get them some clothes and have them accompanied to their lodgings," he added, avoiding looking at the Dornish girls. All of a sudden, Cassella wondered if Elsbet wasn't the only girl he had ever known, and wondering about this was ridiculous, yet she couldn't stop but ask herself that: had the act of violence against Elsbet been his only time with a woman?

"Except for this one," Daeron finished, taking Elsbet's arm. "I'll see her home."

Even that didn't break Elsbet's strange apathy. She let him lead her to the door without protesting or agreeing. As they left, the cloak with the dragon billowed behind her and the candlelight shone in her brown hair and for a moment, she looked a little like a queen.


	7. Michael Manwoody II

**Thank you so much, VVSINGOFTHECROSS, for reviewing each and every chapter. Each and every one!**

Red As Blood and Cold As Sand

 _Michael Manwoody_

In less than a week, everything became known even to the hostages. Lord Qorgyle had arranged the murder of Lyonel Tyrell – and while the opinions in the Targaryen court as to who was truly responsible were divided, there was no doubt among the hostages. Particularly those who knew Aaron Qorgyle in person.

"The last time a mouse farted in Sandstone without my father being apprised of the event must have been well before I was born," was Gulian Qorgyle's appraisal of the situation. Never the one for words, he stayed true to himself, not once showing how this low value on his life by his own father affected him. He didn't even turn pale.

"You should really invite me to Sandstone one day," Quentyn Allyrion quipped. "I'd love to see those farting mouses of yours…"

Everyone laughed and Michael realized just how far on the way to achieving unity they had gone. No one even thought of blaming Gulian for placing them in danger, let alone singling him out. Instead, they tried – for a thousandth time – to guess what was taking place in their homeland, what their parents and grandparents were considering as a possible course of action. And – which no one would discuss aloud but Michael was sure was weighing heavily in everyone's mind, even the children's – was their safety even a factor in what was taking place? For anyone?

"It's stupid to think of that," Elsbet claimed when the two of them were alone, or alone with Riksana. "Our parents love us. They'll never do something that would harm us."

Her voice was firm, her eyes determined and only the occasional trembling of her chin showed that she wasn't as certain as she wanted to appear, and Michael didn't have the heart to tell her that he could tell her lie.

By a cruel twist of fate, Elsbet's safety was the most well established one, more certain than even Cassella's. Lately, Prince Aegon had started making appearances without her plastered at his side. As Princess Naerys' belly swelled further, there were many at court who whispered that the Dornish girl's star was fading. _Like our own star_ , Michael would always think and hate himself for that when he looked at Astra's gaunt frame and constantly flushed face as the foulness in her lungs consumed her. The end was coming and they knew it, yet refused to accept it.

But Elsbet… Daeron Targaryen kept her under his protection discreetly but so constantly that someone might have second thoughts about the nature of their relationship. Not Michael, though, who knew Elsbet's fear and hatred. And when Daeron left to subdue Dorne once again, they were left with cold meals and delayed baths, and no seamstresses sent in time to provide them with new clothes to better fit their growing bodies. Daena Targaryen's revenge, Michael knew. She had taken her brother's interest in Elsbet in the wrong way – and with her new husband, her other brother showing no desire to bed her, her bitterness only grew.

* * *

It was a harsh winter when the news spread – dark words on dark wings, dark mourning carrying dark fears. Michael was practicing his swordplay with Jacaerys Velaryon when Princess Baela appeared in the practice yard, the unscarred part of her face white with shock.

"Come inside," she only said and hurried back inside. The boys followed her and joined Elsbet and the Princess' daughters and nieces to hear in no vague words that the young King had been slain under a banner of peace.

 _That's the end of us_ , Michael thought despairingly and wrapped an arm about Elsbet's shoulders. They were so stiff that he realized: she was summoning all her courage not to break.

"We're dead," she whispered and when she looked at him, her eyes, as brown as chestnuts, were dark pools of pain and betrayal that pushed even the fear away.

"Perhaps not," Velaena murmured. "They didn't say anything about Aemon. If he's alive…"

Once again, Michael was amazed at the sharp perceptions of this lovely girl who spent her days sewing, talking softly, and smiling prettily. It was so easy to take Velaena for an empty-head when she was anything but. Elsbet smiled a little, albeit shakily, and Michael also felt immensely grateful for that attempt to cheer them up.

"Yes." Princess Baela looked tense, "You will stay here until I can talk to my brother."

But that conversation came only hours later and by Viserys Targaryen's stony face, Michael could read nothing. Even when they were marched to the Red Keep by a group of guards who had closed a triple circle around them to protect them from the crowd that was throwing stones and howling for their deaths, he couldn't say if they were being taken back to their vault or the executioner's block.

It was almost a relief when they were shoved into the tower known as the Traitor's Walk. At least they were alive. And when the cells revealed themselves to be small, windowless but somewhat well-appointed, Michael knew that Velaena had been right. The Hand of the King wanted them alive for a while. And there was only one reason for such a wish. Dorne still had a leverage over him, or at least something that balanced their situation. Prince Aemon lived.

No doubt the Small Council thought they were demeaning them by placing them together into a few small cells meant for one. But Michael preferred it this way. He'd have gone mad if he had had to spend his time alone, thinking of the Stranger, the battles, and the ultimate betrayal that Daeron's murder had been.

"Do our lives mean so little to them?" Allegra Uller asked in a tiny voice.

"I guess the situation was getting so fraught that with his return there, it became untenable for them to let him live," Marisia Jordayne suggested. "They must have had reasons to think that he'd destroy Dorne in revenge."

 _Do you really believe this_ , Michael wondered. The Seven knew that he wanted to. And perhaps Marisia was right, She was the one to know. She had been born the heir of the Thor and had received the education Michael and Elsbet lacked.

"If so, they had a good reason," Cassella spoke. "That was his intention, kind of."

Michael wasn't sure if he believed her. But there was no use to say so now. They could clarify their standings later. When they knew what would happen to them all.

Marisia had gone to pile a few blankets together for Astra. In this closed, windowless space where cold was wrapping against everyone's feet now, the child's face was now getting a shade of brighter red, "Go to sleep and you'll be better," Marisia said but the cough shaking the small chest was worse already.

* * *

After two weeks that stretched endless, they were given new clothes. They were fed to their heart's content. They were taken out into sunlight so bright that, combined with the whiteness of the snow covering the yards and gardens like the pelt of a white tiger hurt their eyes but through the spears of pain piercing his eyeballs, Michael breathed the chill air and felt delight spreading through him like the most marvelous warmth, Next to him, Marisia bent down and took a fistful of snow that she brought to her mouth and bit. He followed. He had never tasted something so delicious.

A familiar neigh made him look at the group of horses waiting for them under their magnificent harnesses and unbidden tears came to his eyes. Dark Wing! Little Princess Elaena stepped forward from the crowd of courtiers and looked up at him. "I packed your harp in," she said and he smiled.

"Thank you, Princess," he said and bowed.

"Elaena!" the new Queen snapped. "Come here! You have no reason to talk to these… snakes."

 _Keep talking, Your Grace_ , Michael thought, Now, her helpless rage even amused hm. But Elsbet had stopped dead in her tracks. Then, she went to her own chests that had been also prepared, exchanged a few words with Riksana and took the vial the old woman dug out for her before going to Daena,

"I have something for you, Your Grace," she said and curtsied as deeply as if she were truly showing respect. And when Daena reluctantly let curiosity get the better of her, Michael, who had made a step to be closer to Elsbet just in case, heard his sister whisper, "You've been wondering for a long time what made your brother want me. Perhaps it was my perfume. Perhaps it will make you desired, too. I'm honoured to make you this gift."

Daena's face flushed as crimson as poor Astra's. With a rough wave, she knocked the vial out of Elsbet's hands and it banged on the pavement, cleared from the snow.

"You think it was your whorish ways I had a problem with? It was never them, It was always your misplaced pride. I swear, I would have changed your plight if you had asked me just once!"

Elsbet smiled. "Why should I have? Whatever you did, it's only been leading me to my fate. In the time your brother was destroying Sunspear, I got the prophecy. One day, I will be the ancestress of kings. I wonder what you're going to be then."

She curtsied once again and went to her horse. Daena made a movement as if she wanted to lunge after her but Naerys stopped her with a firm shake of her head.

They left the Red Keep in a glorious procession that would accompany them only to the gates of King's Landing. Then, it would only be them and the new King.

* * *

Sometimes, Michael thought their journey would make a lovely song, if an unconvincing one. The king who looked like a pauper guiding them on his bare, bleeding feet as they rode behind him in full splendor was something that _he_ still couldn't believe sometimes. And of course, he'd never have the time to compose this song if he ever got mad enough to want it. This puny boy king would soon die and they'd be killed the moment the word spread, there was no doubt as to that. It was so certain that he didn't even dream of it in the septs and small castles where they spent the night sometimes. He just went to sleep the moment he lay down, although he knew that he was just losing his time. Soon, he'd go to sleep forever.

"At least we won't have to listen to his ramblings about binding wounds and healing old hurts," Marisia would say in the beginning but as they got nearer and nearer, she fell silent more often. Like most of the others, she was being slowly taken by the strength of his conviction and the enticing visage of his promise. Little by little, Michael came to realize that there was strength to the feeble Baelor that was far more compelling than his brother's. He wasn't completely convinced by the King's rhetoric but sometimes he caught himself contemplating the possibility of it being true. And well before they entered Dorne, he had realized that Baelor wouldn't die. He'd go where he was headed for and _then_ , he might die. "I am not sure I want him to," Elsbet whispered, surprised by herself.

When they reached Blackhaven, Astra could no longer ride her horse and they left it in Lord Dondarrion's stables. Instead, she was provided with a litter, white as hope, as Baelor insisted. _Pale as the Stranger's mare_ , Michael thought as he watched the little girl fighting for every breath as they came closer to their own land – fighting the cough, fighting the cold, fighting the yellow tint in her purple eyes that showed the cruel advancement of the ailment, the Stranger racing them.

"She'll die," the maester of Blackhaven said, sadly.

"She won't," Baelor assured him and went to pray for her in the sept, and as he prayed for her life, those who saw the truth of her condition only prayed that she made it long enough.

It was a lovely day of azure sky and birds soaring high above the Red Mountains, with a spring singing nearby and green forests beckoning them close when Elsbet rode to the litter and pulled the curtains apart. "Look around, Astra," she said. "Look – we're home."

A small tear fell between the pale lashes, glistened, died as the girl forced her tortured lungs to take in the deepest breath for two years. She even rose on her elbow and stayed like this for a while before falling back. But when they reached to draw the curtains back, she shook her head no.

"Let her have her way," Marisia whispered, her face white. "It doesn't matter now."

"Oh please," the twelve-yer-old Olyvar Wyl, Astra's cousin, murmured. "Please don't take her. Not yet."

"The Seven won't take her," Baelor announced. "Not at ten years of age. Not when I have prayed for her recovery."

And now, Michael wanted to slap him, because for all his good intentions and vision, he was still a fool, unable to see what was right in front of him.

The cage was just in the beginning of the olive grove that was perched near the River Wyl. And while Baelor headed straight for it, the rest of them showed no interest to the man kept naked there. They had gathered around the litter where Astra had even found the strength to sit in one last bout of effort. "I am so happy that I came home," she whispered. "I am so happy that I came back before the olives grew overripe."

Tears pouring down his cheeks, Michael reached over and brought her a fistful of small black fruits. Smiling, she reached out and their fingers touched. Then, a sudden convulsion overcame her and she went still, her head thrown back and the upper part of her body hanging over the edge of the litter. They rushed to straighten her out, terrified that she might topple over. It was strange how heavy a dead body was.

Elsbet gave a violent sob and looked at the cage where the naked man was clearly visible, gaunt and exhausted. There was no pity in her eyes and there was no in Michael's heart either.

"The noble Dragonknight and his brave king," he spat. "They killed a girl of all but ten years. I hope the Seven punish them!"

" _We_ must," Marisia said, her eyes cold glints of ice.


	8. Endings

**Thanks, VVSINGOFTHECROSS, for being such a constant reviewer!**

Red As Blood and Cold As Sand

 _Endings_

 **Michael, 186 AC**

Marisia's pains had started early in the morning but when Michael returned from a quick journey to Yronwood late in the evening, the child had not arrived yet. He paced around his solar and the gardens and his steps led him more and more often to the hall before their bedchambers or the door connecting them from the inside. Once or twice, he tried to open it but Marisia had had it bolted on her side.

"You have nothing to do here," his stepmother said when she showed up to say a few words to him. "You did your job nine months ago. We're taking care of her and the babe will arrive… soon."

Behind her typical brusque manners, there was worry deepening the lines of her brow. She didn't look at him when she assured him that Marisia was doing fine. "She's a fighter," she said. "And she's already given birth to three with this tiny frame of hers."

 _But they were all in her twenties_ , Michael thought. _What a woman has done easily in her twenties can kill her just as easily in her fourties._ Once again he regretted their blithe neglect of safety. When Marisia hadn't quickened with child again up to her thirty firth nameday, they had just taken it for granted that three boys was it for them. And here they were, he at forty and she five years older, expecting the birth of a babe which would not arrive…

For a while, he stayed in his bedchamber where he could hear the women talking and from time to time, Marisia screaming. That gave him certainty that for now, she was fine. But when they stopped, when the other women fell silent as well and the maester's soft voice, took over, the chilling fear that Michael had subdued until now took over. He gripped the back of the nearest chair so tightly that he couldn't feel his fingers for days later and didn't release it until he finally heard a change – the tiny wail of a newborn. Then, he grasped it again. Why was he feeling so relieved already? The babe had arrived but the most dangerous moment for new mothers was still there for Marisia – expelling of the afterbirth…

A little later, the adjoining door creaked as someone released the latch. Elsbet came in with a white bundle in her arms and a smile on her face that was so sweaty and pale still that Michael understood: he hadn't been the only one holding back fear.

"You have a daughter," she announced. "Marisia did it once again."

But when he was finally let in, he shivered at his lady wife's discoloured face. She had been through a lot and he could still feel the Stranger lurking in the room.

And still, he did not hit until Michael was finally sure that he had gone past them.

It was late at night a week after Carissa's birth when the night chill woke Michael up. The bed next to him was empty and Marisia was nursing the babe in her usual place near the window. That was a sight Michael had become accustomed to again pretty soon and he didn't pay it much attention. He tried to go to sleep but it was taking her too long and the sounds the little one was making were anything but content. She was smacking her lips and giving a hungry wail at the same time. Marisia did nothing to change it. Michael sat up in bed. "Marisia," he called out softly and then bolted out of bed, thinking that she might have fallen asleep. But when he took Carissa from her arms, her skin, icy to the touch, told his skin what had taken place before his mind knew.

They buried her in the crypt overlooking the sky, with no one understanding what had taken place. Sometimes, new mothers died days after the birth without anything being wrong with their recovery but the maesters still didn't know the reason. Marisia had complained of headaches and seeing spots a few hours before going to bed but no one had thought it was this serious. No one could have prevented it. _Except for not having Carissa_ , Michael thought with anger aimed at himself more than anyone else, watching the little bundle in her wetnurse's arms.

"What are you going to do now?" Elsbet asked him just a week after the funeral and he stared at her, unable to believe that she was being this heartless. It was still so soon.

Many months later, he realized that she must have grasped the bleak apathy taking him in. How else could he have reacted? His life with Marisia had started so long ago – twenty-three years had passed. And how proud he had been that a woman like her, a woman who sought to repair the damages of the conquest and needed an able partner had chosen him, waiting for him to grow into manhood instead of looking for someone else. "I chose you when we were still in that vault," she had told him in no unclear terms when, after her father's death she had been making plans how to go on. "I don't want anyone unwilling. If you do not want that, tell me now. I won't approach your lord father at all." For all his harp sang of love and romantics, he hadn't thought twice before saying yes. And while romance might have been largely absent from their shared life, he wouldn't have had it over her and what they had built. Her loss had left him cold inside, as cold as desert sand at night.

"I don't know," he admitted and despite her visible dissatisfaction, Elsbet knew better than press him.

Two months ago, he already knew. He couldn't stay at the Thor. People still turned to him for his old duties and competences when it was not his place anymore. With the overcoming of the shock of Marisia's sudden death, he found himself disagreeing with Dagos' decisions as to the Thor more and more often and while he could always say so, he knew that he's try to force his decisions and influence his son's the way he had done with Marisia's – but that was no longer his right and duty. He'd only make problems and worsen their relationship. And he was proud enough to dislike the thought of accepting his son's authority.

"Perhaps it's time for me and my harp to visit Queen Mariah's court," he said lightly one night. "See what she has changed in that monstrous city."

Dagos did not try to pretend that he wasn't relieved. "But you will come back, right?" he only asked.

Michael smiled. "I couldn't do anything else," he said, wondering if he could find something to fill his existence in a different way but to the same extent his life with Marisia had. The irony of the fact that after all those years, he was going back to the place he had once been a helpless captive did not escape him.

* * *

 **Cassella, throughout**

The first offer came a few years into King Baelor's peace. She had celebrated twenty-one namedays then. House Yronwood sought a station in life for a younger son and while Cassella didn't grin outright at the proposal, she was laughing in her sleeve. So, they had started overlooking her dishonour – as if she would have ever met Aegon Targaryen if they hadn't lost that cursed war anyway! Gold did not stink. And they were no doubt hopeful that she'd be delighted with such a prestigious match – the Bloodroyal! – for her disgraced self. How wrong they were! She had seen the worst of men. She had no desire to shackle herself with one and let him have any say in her life. Never again. The cold dampness of the cells had drowned even her desire for any repeat of the passion she had known with the Prince. She'd be glad if she only ruled her lands one day, live the life she chose, and built security for herself that had nothing to do with this or that man's whims or affections. She had gotten fond of Aegon who had discarded her as soon as he had felt sated. Never again.

With time, the stain of infamy claiming her fair brow faded, turned to nothing, turned mostly forgotten by all. Sutiors were now coming in droves But Cassella hadn't forgotten a thing. Friendships were lies. Men were betrayers. And there was no such thing as understanding to be expected of them. Even Davos Dayne who was devoted to Elsbet had other women because his empathy couldn't overcome his pride and the fact that she did not want him as he wanted her – which was known and discussed by all Dorne – mattered more than his wife's hurts. He added to them with his infidelities. Far away, Aegon was taking a woman after a woman after a woman and probably didn't even remember the name of the Dornish toy he had tied to himself so tightly that he had left her unable to form ties to other people, let alone another man. Children would be nice to have but only if you had them. Motherhood hadn't brought Princess Naerys much joy, for sure! There was no guarantee that they'd be born alive, like most of Naerys', or _stay_ alive, like Elsbet's. Better have no children at all than have four and lose two of those. At least that was what she told herself when she was headed for old age and then even older age and her bed was cold and her heart going cold at the sight of her brother's grandchildren running around, a yearning stirring in her breast, as gentle as silver and decades too late.

* * *

 **Elsbet, 221 AC**

The dark wings stirred the brilliant blue sky just when her meal had been brought over. For a long time, she hadn't left her chambers but this time a sudden cold in her breast prompted her to go all the way to the rookery. The maester looked at her in surprise which she couldn't understand. Hadn't he been telling her that she needed to move more, that it was only her lack of will that was the problem and not her so old body?

"What?" she asked and he handed her the missive. She read it silently, her eyes running over the words as fast as they had in her early youth. Aging had brought her failing eyesight back, as strange as it was. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling Riksana's presence at her shoulder. _But she's dead, she died twenty-five years ago_ , she reminded herself.

"Ring the bells," she ordered and headed downstairs.

"My lady," the young man called after her. "Do not stay there for long. The cold and lack of air…"

"I won't," Elsbet promised. He was so eager to do his best, this boy. It was kinder not to worry him. And anyway, he was so young that he couldn't see past the ice of the crypt. He couldn't know how at peace she was there, where so many of those she loved were laid. Where she'd go soon, too. With an unexpectedly sharp pang in her heart, she wondered if her grandson, Aemon, was this devoted to his duty. She barely knew the boy.

The serving maids hurriedly removed themselves from her way. A younger girl pushed the heavy doors apart and Elsbet entered, declining the torch they offered to carry for her. She knew the interior so fine that she even shut the door almost fully. The slim slice of sunlight was more than enough to let her take her bearings in the vast damp surroundings.

The crypt was built in three levels. In the heart of the lowest ones, the ancient Kings of the Torrentine breathed their surreal breath, waited, bided their time, watched her and as usual wondered what a woman like her, so unlike their own chaste queens, was doing here. Deep inside, Elsbet agreed with their assessment. After all those years, she was still so grateful to Davos that he had honoured the betrothal and wed her.

On the second level, lords of Nymeria's time and later lay. They had lived in a more peaceful time and Elsbet had always felt more at peace with them. Ser Joffrey Dayne's smile remembered her so much of her own son's. She went downstairs just to look at her because two years later, she still couldn't look at the effigy with Ultor's face on it. He was harder to see this time because the sword, glowing with milky light, was no longer at that level. Now it hung on her grandson's back and Elsbet was pleased that she had lived to see it, yet she would have given that joy ten times over if she didn't have to look at Astra and Ultor's sarcophagi and the one bearing Davos' name. And now, Aurelia's had also joined them. Only Dyanna's was absent but Elsbet could feel her presence each time she looked at the river hiding the underwater people that her daughter had claimed spoke to her often. She had outlived three children, a husband, and a granddaughter and still lived. The Stranger had just forgotten her, it seemed.

She returned to the third level slowly, painfully, and stared at her goodparent's effigies. Vorian's. Astra's. Then her own Astra's, with pain that was now dull and lost its edge but never gone away. She stroked Davos' stone face. "Are you waiting for me?" she whispered, sure that this was the case. As always, she went past Ultor and Aurelia's last places of rest quickly, tears falling quickly, the pain in her breast like Dyanna had described – not the pain from the diseased flesh but the one left by the snake that had coiled upon it, so sudden, so sneaky, and nothing could heal it but the Stranger who didn't want her.

As she left, the echo of hooves upon the paved path made her look at the gates. Arthur and Rhae came in, both laughing. She was pointing at her horse and the boat behind them, amused that they had finally taught the animal not to fear the Torrentine. Elsbet smiled and then her smile faded at the thought of what she had to tell them. "Dyanna! Ultor!" she cried. _No, no!_ Rhae and Arthur, that was who they were. "Rhae! Arthur! Come here!"

They arrived, laughing and holding hands, oblivious to the fear that pierced her each time she saw them together. They were young and in love and they were fearless. The fear of the disease meant nothing to them even now, as it had claimed Aurelia who was even younger than Dyanna. Elsbet had not been the same when she had been their age and she was happy for them, yet fear woke her at night – for Rhae, for any child they might have. _I'll be long dead before anything strikes_ , Elsbet told herself. _If it ever does. Perhaps the Stranger has tired of us, finally._ As she lived, she tried to rejoice in the grandson she had seen becoming the fine man he was, the Sword of the Morning, and the granddaughter she had been deprived of for so long thanks to the tension between Maekar and Ultor.

"What?" Rhae asked, coming to a halt before her, her cheeks flushed by indecent running, much like her mother's. Red as blood, red as life. And then again, sharply. "Grandmother? What is it?"

"King Aerys has died," Elsbet said and looked away from the tears in Rhae's eyes. She had never been good at comforting. Even her own children had gone to their minders for comfort. _You are so good at it_ , Davos had used to say. _But only when we're completely down._ She had never been able to be anything different."Your father is the king now," she added because she didn't know what to say.

Rhae stared at her with vacant eyes and Elsbet looked down, once again realizing that the girl _loved_ her uncle. Dyanna had loved Maekar, as incomprehensible as it had been to Elsbet. _You'll be an ancestress of kings_ , Riksana had said and Elsbet once again heard the gloating in her own voice as she had slapped Daena Targaryen with the words. To her, they had never meant a wish but she had never expected them to mean the pain she felt as she was watching Rhae's grief now.

High above them, the bells of Starfall finally started tolling.

* * *

 **The End**


End file.
